


Who Said Three Was A Crowd?!

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Double Penetration, Face-Sitting, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M, because Ratchet DEFINITELY has an oral fixation, multiple overloads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever did, they clearly had never been in Rung's berth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Said Three Was A Crowd?!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vienn_peridot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/gifts).



> This fic was a commission by the wonderful [Vienn](www.adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com), thank you so much! 
> 
> Thank you [Iopele](www.iopele.tumblr.com) for proofreading for me!
> 
> Commission information can be found [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) if you are interested. Thank you!

Ratchet stepped out of his office with a sigh, stretching his arms overhead and wincing as his spinal strut creaked and several plates popped back into steady alignment. It was the end of another long day in a string of long week’s worth of work, while the medbay was backed up. All he was looking forward to now was a detour through the wash racks and a nice glass of engex curled up on the couch in front of his vid screen. 

 

He would have preferred a night spent with his lovers, a chance to get his mouth on Rung again like he had the other morning, or to have Percy beneath him while he rode his spike, but they’d both made noises about late nights too, unfortunately. It wouldn’t be the first night one or more of their schedules kept them all apart for a few days, and it wouldn’t be the last, but oh what he wouldn’t do to change that right at the moment.

 

Stomping into the washracks, a few mechs scattered as he headed for the farthest stall. Once safely ensconced inside, he let his forehead thunk audibly against the tile and opened the hot cleanser faucet as wide as it would go. The blast of heat across his back helped to ease  _ some _ of the tension away, and he fluffed his plating out, letting it soak into his protoform beneath.

 

The heat did wonders to relax him, so by the time the door opened behind him to let in a rush of cold air, he only snarled at whoever thought it was a good idea to intrude, instead of whipping around to throw them out.

 

“The frag? There are twenty other sta- _ ah!I”  _ His vocalizer cut out on a gasp when orange plated hands slid around his waist, a smaller frame pressing against his back and a familiar, comforting EMF washing over him.

 

“But this stall has the best view, Ratchet.” Rung chuckled, pressing a kiss to his back, hands sliding down to curl around his thighs, featherlight touches teasing at the sensitive seams and gaps around his hips.

 

“ _ Hnng _ ….Th-thought you were gonna be... _ hah _ ...be busy tonight?”

 

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, of course. I am sufficiently occupied at this very moment, am I not?” Rung purred, fingertips dragging lightly along the fronts of his thighs as he sank to his knees behind the medic.

 

Ratchet bit his lip, nodding against the wet tiles. Rung tapped against first one foot, then the other, and he spread his legs, angling his hips back and shivering as the rivulets of cleanser ran over heated plating. Fingers plucked at the exposed cables in his hips, smoothing out kinks and slicking away grease and grime, while Rung hummed a cheery little tune.

 

He balled his hands into fists, pressing back into Rung’s touch as heat started to build in his array. The other mech didn’t disappoint, pressing open mouthed kisses along the seam of his panel and blowing a puff of relatively cooler air over his valve when it was bared to him.

 

“You know, Ratchet, we both think you’ve been overworking yourself lately.” The pitspawned mech seemed to have no trouble holding a civilized conversation, no matter the venue, and it was a skill Ratchet had yet to be able to overcome. While Rung spoke, he was pressing two slim fingers into the tight clench of his valve, spreading the first few rings of calipers apart and rolling his thumb over his anterior node. Little shocks of pleasure raced up and down his spinal strut, and his legs started to tremble as Rung leaned up and pressed the tip of his glossa into the small space he made between his fingers.

 

He couldn’t find a witty remark or snarky comeback in him, only a whine of disappointment when Rung pulled his fingers free. The whine morphed into a whimper when Rung’s glossa returned, tracing little circles and figure eight patterns over his node, straying every so often to the rim of his valve, teasing the edges before returning to kiss and suckle the bundle of sensors. He bit his lip, burying his face in his crossed arms and pushing back against the smaller mech’s mouth. His legs were starting to tremble, overload coiling in the pit of his tank.

 

When he overloaded, it was with a barely stifled shout, not caring if there was anyone else left in the room. Rung drew it out for as long as he could, rolling his node under his glossa, and then Ratchet shuddered when he felt that glossa drag across his array, tasting the fresh layer of lubricants that had escaped during overload.

 

“That’s one.” Rung told him, rising slowly to his feet and motioning for the medic to hand him the detachable shower head. “Let’s get you cleaned off and back to berth to see how many more we can get out of you tonight, does that sound good?” Ratchet nodded mutely, shifting and turning as Rung instructed, while he studiously went over every inch of his plating.

 

When they stepped out of their stall a short while later, the room was suspiciously vacant.

 

~~~~~

 

Rung pulled him through the doorway, grinning widely, and led him straight through to the berth.

 

“I was beginning to wonder…” Percy said when they came into view. He was seated on the edge of the berth, and Ratchet stopped a few feet from him, just out of reach. There was no attempt to disguise the way his optics moved up and down Perceptor’s frame, sliding across smooth, clean plating to the dark plated servo palming his spike as he watched Ratchet in turn. 

 

The calm, predatory gaze of the sniper on him as he crossed the room sent shivers down his spinal strut, and he let himself be pulled between splayed thighs, ducking his helm at the insistent tug on the back of his neck, Percy’s mouth on his hot, insistent, intent on devouring him. 

 

“Yes, well, I caught him in the wash racks, and couldn’t resist a bit of a preview.” Rung laughed, running his hands over Ratchet’s back, teasing at seams and leaning in to steal a kiss from each of them in turn when they parted with a gasp.

 

“Besides,” Rung said when he pulled away from Ratchet, cupping his cheek and smiling at them both, “We could never go AWOL without you. But what we  _ did _ do...is get Ratchet nice and clean for the three of us to get him filthy again.” Rung giggled, and Percy licked his lips as he looked Ratchet up and down. “I already had a taste, if you’d like to take your turn while I explain the evening’s entertainment to our love here?” 

 

Percy’s engine gave a heavy rumble deep in his chassis, one that vibrated up through Ratchet from every point of contact and made his legs feel strutless. If Rung noticed the way his grip tightened on his shoulder, he didn’t let on. Instead, he pushed at Ratchet till he climbed up onto the oversized berth that had been inexplicably assigned to one of the smallest members of their crew. 

 

The scientist wasted no time with small talk, rolling over onto his hands and knees and slipping between Ratchet’s spread thighs to mouth as his panel and the sensitive gaps along the inside creases of his thighs. The glow of Perceptor’s optics brightened when Ratchet slid his panel aside without preamble and his spike rose out of its housing with a quiet hiss of pressurization, biolights already glowing brightly along the shaft.

 

A warm, wet kiss to the tip, and then Perceptor was tracing his glossa over the ridges and seams of his spike, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head while he wrapped a hand around what he hadn’t taken in, teasing and stroking over the fully pressurized shaft, smearing the oral lubricants that escaped the tight seal of his lips. 

 

Rung removed his glasses and knelt next to Ratchet's shoulder, stowing them in one of his forearm compartments before leaning down to capture a quick kiss from his slack mouth. Ratchet wasn’t satisfied with that, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the back of the skinny mech’s neck, pulling him down and slotting their mouths together. His glossa darted out, tracing the seam of the other mech’s mouth and pressing in when Rung parted his lips, glossas tangling together in a heated kiss that had their fans running high. A peek out of the corner of his optic saw Perceptor watching them from under the edge of his helm, optics bright, mouth stretched so nicely around his spike, and Ratchet reached down to palm the side of his face, thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth. The scientist hummed, optics dimming, and Ratchet’s vents froze. A moan escaped his vocalizer before he could silence it, and why would he? Perceptor was beautiful like that, stretched out on his belly between Ratchet’s tense thighs, mouth and hand both full of his spike. 

 

Then Rung was talking, pulling back only enough to speak, mouth still brushing his. He caught something about his schedule being cleared for the following day, and realized he  _ really _ needed to focus.

 

“-spoil you rotten. If you’ll let us, that is?” Ratchet didn’t feel words were needed, why would he have a single problem with the idea of being sandwiched between his lovers for an extended period of time, being brought to overload over and over and over again? He pulled Rung back down for another kiss, exvents mingling and fans screaming as their lips slid over one another, glossas teasing and stroking, the air between them rapidly heating.

 

When Rung pulled away again, Ratchet wanted to groan, to vent his frustration at being halted once more, but Rung smiled and pressed a finger to his lips.

 

“For the next solar cycle, you’re in control, love. If you say stop, we stop. If you want more, there’s always more. We are at your mercy.” As if to add his own agreement to Rung’s statement, Perceptor redoubled his efforts, glossa flicking over the sensitive line of biolights on the underside of his spike, tightening his grip ever so slightly, doing his best to draw Ratchet’s spark out through his spike, it seemed.

 

Ratchet growled, engine revving hard in his chassis. The hand he still had on the back of Rung’s neck tightened, and he pulled him closer still, pressing his mouth to Rung’s audial.

 

“Well, if it’s all about me, maybe  _ I’d  _ like to be at  _ your _ mercy.” It would have sounded a lot more impressive if it didn’t cut out on a whimper of disappointment as Percy sat back on his knees, licking his lips and pumping his spike with just his hand now. Rung twisted in his hold to look back at the other mech, and Ratchet could see the grin quirking his mouth up.

 

“Perhaps we could see how many overloads we can get from him tonight, hmm?” Perceptor’s voice was still calm and collected, despite the fully pressurized spike bobbing between his thighs, and he watched Ratchet closely as he twisted his hand up and palms over the leaking head of his spike on his next pass. 

 

“Oh yes! We can do that thing he loves so much, that’s good for a handful, easy.” Rung chuckled at his little unintentional joke, hand over his mouth, and Ratchet felt overload tighten in the pit of his tank, because he knew where this was going, loved watching Rung curl and uncurl his fingers against his mouth. The thought of where those fingers were going to be, what they were going to be doing to him in just a short while, was enough to push him over the edge.

 

He bucked up into Percy’s hand with a muffled cry, burying his face in Rung’s neck, mouthing at a thick line to try and keep quiet, so he felt as much as heard when Rung stroked the side of his helm and said “That’s number two.”

 

Then there were hands on him, on his shoulders, his hips, two sets of hands guiding him to roll over, to stretch out on his front. Rung switched places with Perceptor, who now knelt by his helm, bending over his back to press steady, strong hands into the plating of his shoulder assemblies, kneading at tense plating and guiding it back into proper alignment. For the moment, Ratchet was content to pillow his face on his crossed arms, Perceptor’s knees brushing his audials as the scientist leaned onto his palms, delicious, glorious pressure on his back that forced abused, overly tight plating back into its proper spaces. 

 

Rung had taken up position between his legs, small delicate fingers stroking up the tender, more pliable plating of his inner thighs. While they worked, their fields washed over him, unrestrained, full of  _ love/worship/admiration/pleasure _ . That, as much as anything else, was the kindling to start the slow build up of his charge once more. It started as a glowing warmth in his tank, the sort of content, relaxed warmth that only came from being safe and surrounded by the people who cared about him most. 

 

The hands on his plating weren’t chaste, but they also weren’t zeroing in on all his sweet spots intentionally. Eventually, despite that, he found himself squirming in the sheets, spike sliding between folds in the silky smooth mesh of the berth sheets as he rocked into the mattress, looking for some kind of friction. The sheets slid over his spike, the mattress beneath firm, but not enough as he pressed into it, and Rung’s hands slid over his aft, thumbs dipping into the gaps at his hips, teasing the sensors lining the inside edges.

 

Instead of stilling his hips, trying to halt him, Rung was pressing down on them, moving with him, encouraging him as charge started to lick at his plating, and he was finally getting somewhere. The hands on his plating, setting the pace, urging him to frag the beth covers, tickling and stroking at delicate sensors, it was all too much, his processor was swimming from the heady sensations. Reaching out, Ratchet’s hands closed around Perceptor’s hips, and he pulled him closer. 

 

Perceptor shifted on the berth, spreading his bent legs to either side of Ratchet’s helm, dropping from his perch on his knees to sit flat on his aft to be in better reach as Ratchet wrapped a trembling servo around his spike and guided the glowing tip of it into his mouth. Ratchet took pride in being able to unravel the scientist’s composure, and set to work doing just that as he flicked his glossa over the tip to gather up the fluid already beaded there, and wrapped his hand around the shaft. 

 

Sealing his lips around the head of Perceptor’s spike and hollowing his cheeks, he couldn’t help the little smirk when Perceptor’s intakes hitched, and hands curved around the back of his helm. 

 

Frustration soon took over as Ratchet couldn’t  _ quite _ reach that overload he was craving. Rung, sensing his mood change, tugged at his hips, pulling him up onto his knees so his weight fell forward onto his elbows, between Perceptor’s thighs. He whined around the heavy weight of Percy’s spike on his glossa, because that wasn’t  _ better _ , not yet anyway! Now his spike bobbed between his thighs in the relatively cooler air of the room, aching for release. 

 

Rung didn’t keep him waiting for long, however. No sooner had he voiced his opinion, as it were, than fingers were tracing circles around the rim of his valve, spreading the lubricants that had already escaped over tender folds and teasing at the ring of interlocking platelets beneath. Rung’s free hand snaked around to grab hold of his neglected spike at the same time as he sank two fingers into his valve.

 

Ratchet’s optics flared, then dimmed, as pleasure flooded his tac-net, and he found it much harder to keep from drooling around Percy’s spike, hand spreading the shining fluids over the shaft as he struggled to keep a rhythm. Rung leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his hip as he slid his fingers through clenching calipers, spreading them slowly, so slowly. The hand on his spike was no better, and Ratchet whined, bucking back into the smaller mech’s hands, trying to get him to  _ move _ .

 

“I think...I think he’s dis- _ ah- _ dissatisfied with your work so far, Rung.” Percy said, and Ratchet couldn’t hide the flash of pride in his field at the small stutter in his vocalizer as he slurped and suckled at the head of the other mech’s spike, speeding up the hand stroking what he couldn’t fit into his mouth.

 

“Oh.. well, I would  _ hate _ to disappoint you Ratchet...would you like another?” Ratchet rolled his optics, he could hear the smile in Rung’s voice, knowing full well he had his mouth full! 

 

Thankfully, Rung didn’t seem inclined to actually wait for a response. The stretch as Rung pulled two fingers out, and fit a third one in alongside sent little bolts of pleasure shooting up his spinal strut, and the knot in his tank tightened as overload drew closer.

 

Perceptor stroked his helm, venting heavily, hips twitching as his own overload started to peak. Ratchet shifted, taking a little more into his mouth, tracing his glossa along the underside and teasing at the seams between plates, twisting his wrist on every upstroke. 

 

Then Rung decided to change things a bit. He pressed his thumb down on Ratchet’s node, rubbing small circles into the sensitive protomesh, and sped up his own hand on Ratchet’s spike. Suddenly, Ratchet couldn’t focus on Perceptor, couldn’t focus on  _ anything _ but the dual stimulation to his array, hips jerking, torn between pressing back into the fingers stretching his valve and stroking against internal sensors, and pushing forward into the hand wrapped so nicely around his spike, squeezing and stroking, and between the two, his legs were starting to feel like they’d been forged out of rubber.

 

He pulled off Perceptor’s spike with a gasp, laying his head on one of the other mech’s thighs, venting heavily as he clumsily stroked the lubricant slicked shaft. When he overloaded, it was with a whimper, not a shout, transfluid splattering the sheets between his spread knees, valve cycling down tight on the fingers stretching him open.

 

Perceptor’s hand wrapped around his on his spike, helping him along, guiding him through his lack of coordination, while Ratchet vented hot gusts of air that warped and shimmered between them. It was almost beyond the power left in his processor as he tried to focus on anything other than the lazy, relaxed pleasure that radiated through his frame that had him all but drooling, twitching and shivering as Rung released his spike and pressed two fingers from each hand in beside one another in his post overload relaxed valve.

 

His knees slipped in the sheets, his whole frame shivered and shook as Rung methodically stretched him, tugging on the rim of his valve, leaning in to press his glossa into the small space between his fingers as he let Perceptor move his hand on the scientist’s spike.

 

He knew Perceptor was close when the hand on his became more insistent, moving faster, curling his fingers just a little tighter around hot metal. Ratchet pressed his cheek into Perceptor’s thigh, watching Perceptor’s face out of the corner of his optic as the other mech overloaded, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as his frame tensed and charge crackled over his plating. Rung waited till Perceptor had released his hand, leaning back on his palms and venting heavily, transfluid shining silver in the dim lights on both their hands, before he pulled out and rolled Ratchet over onto his back.

 

“I think you’re ready, what do you say?” Rung purred, rolling his thumb absentmindedly against Ratchet’s node, optics bright, unfiltered without the diffuser lenses he wore outside their room. Ratchet just nodded, vocalizer nothing but static and processor unable to connect anyway.

 

Instead of a witty response, Rung simply lay one small hand against his thigh, pushing gently till he let his legs splay open shamelessly, giving him more room as he leaned in, slipping in two fingers, curling them up and stroking along the sensors along the front of his valve. 

 

Two fingers became three, then four, pressing against calipers that were reaching the limits of their ability to stretch. Rung leaned forward, optics locked on Ratchet’s face as he wrapped his lips around the tip of his spike, and teased and suckled him into another overload. A pause, while Ratchet vented heavily and squirmed, and then Rung was folding his thumb into his palm, and pressing carefully,  _ tormentingly _ slowly inside.

 

There was that moment, just like every other time, where the widest part of his hand stretched incessantly at the rim of his valve, and he bordered between pain and pleasure, and he debated telling Rung to stop.

 

He  _ never _ told Rung to stop.

 

Now wasn’t any different, and after a moment of discomfort, Rung’s entire hand was inside his valve, his stretched rim clenching tight around the slim mech’s wrist. The pressure inside his valve, combined with the delicious ignition of sensors normally hidden in the pleats of his lining as Rung flexed his fingers and curled them into a fist set off another overload so quickly Ratchet was caught by surprise. He tensed around the heavy weight in his pelvic array, arching up off the berth as his tac-net lit up with sparks of pleasure that came and went too quickly, leaving him disoriented and gasping.

 

Head tilted back, optics flickering as his calipers flexed unevenly around the always strange shape of Rung’s fist clenching and unclenching, knuckles brushing nodes still crackling with undispersed charge, his optics locked on Perceptor. The sniper had relocated to stand by the edge of the berth, watching as Rung pulled overloads out of him with the expertise of a long time lover, stroking his repressurized spike almost absentmindedly. 

 

Finding the strength to do  _ anything  _ other than lay there and twitch around Rung’s hand was near impossible, but he managed to raise an arm and reach out to paw at Percy’s hip. His mouth watered as the other mech chuckled, following his clumsy attempts at drawing him in and stepping closer. Lying near the edge of the berth as he was, his spike was on optic level, and he wanted the weight of it on his glossa again, wanted to taste the overload he’d been denied last time by his own inability to remain coordinated under the onslaught of Rung’s skillful hands and mouth. 

 

So when Perceptor neatly avoided his questing hand to slide his own hands beneath Ratchet’s shoulders, he whined.

 

He’d admit it.

 

To the two people in this room.

 

But Perceptor was firm, urging him up, slipping in behind him to let him rest against the other mech’s broad chest. One hand slid down his frame, pressing at his lower abdominal plating. With the new position, reclining against Perceptor’s frame as he was, things had shifted, and there was suddenly a bit less room than before in his pelvic array. Rung’s hand fit much more snugly, his calipers cycling down around the shape of it, pressing nodes firmly against warm plating. The external pressure only made things more intense, and he tensed, optics flickering as he fisted his hands in the sheets. Perceptor’s other hand took hold of his chin, gently urging him to look down his frame at Rung, and when he onlined his optics to do just that, he nearly overloaded again on the spot.

 

He had a look of such utter concentration on his face, optics focused on Ratchet’s array as he started to slowly thrust his hand, tiny little motions that couldn’t have moved the hand inside him more than a few micrometers at a time, but it felt like the most intense fragging of his life. All Ratchet could see was Rung’s wrist, slicked in lubricants, shifting between his thighs, but it was an amazing sight none the less, a fragging  _ sexy _ sight, knowing where his hand was, what he was doing with it. 

 

Perceptor let go of his chin, seeing as he wasn’t making any effort to look away, and traced his lips with a single finger tip. Ratchet parted his lips absentmindedly, and gently captured the wandering digit between his dentae when they came into reach, suckling on the tip and flicking his glossa over it in a pantomime of what he wanted to do to the other mech’s spike. Either of their spikes, really.

 

Rung, as if reading his mind, shifted up just slightly, and took the head of Ratchet’s spike, slick with transfluids and biolights glowing brightly, into his mouth. 

 

Ratchet overloaded with a shout, curling over, servos cupping the sides of Rung’s helm as his calipers tried and failed to cycle down, hips twitching through the overload to end all overloads. His tac-net lit up blindingly bright as the tight band of pressure around his hips released, and it took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that the reason it had gone so dark was because his optics had rebooted.

 

He only reset them when he felt Rung carefully extract himself from Ratchet’s grip, the superheated air between them suddenly cool on his spike. He whined piteously, letting Perceptor support his limp frame once more as Rung carefully, gently, oh so slowly pulled his hand free. The fuzz in his vision cleared in time to catch the sheen of lubricants soaking into every joint and seam and gear of Rung’s hand and wrist, and his spike twitched, trying valiantly to repressurize. 

 

Rising up onto his knees, a loving smile on his lips, Rung pressed two fingers to Ratchet’s mouth, and moaned appreciatively when Ratchet set to work suckling them clean, running his glossa between them, tracing the very tip into every delicate seam. When he deemed them clean enough, releasing them back to Rung’s care with a gasp and a little whir of overtaxed fans, Rung rewarded him with a tender kiss.

 

“Do you need a break, love?” He asked when they broke apart. 

 

He wanted to say no, wanted to protest, vehemently, the idea that they’d do anything other than continue to absolutely  _ wreck _ him. But he knew Rung, knew the other mech knew him almost better than he knew himself. So he paused, running a few diagnostics, and coming to a satisfactory conclusion.

 

“Refractory period for my spike’s gonna take a while if you have any interest in it. But my valve’s still very much interested in your attentions.” Rung snickered at the face he made to accompany the statement, and kissed the center of his chevron.

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He laughed, tapping at the side of Ratchet’s helm and shaking his head.

 

“If you’re asking, have you managed to melt my processor into a pile of molten slag? Then no. You haven’t. Close, but not yet.” 

 

“Excellent.” Rung purred. Ratchet’s optics widened when Perceptor’s support against his back disappeared, and Rung was pushing him insistently down to lay flat. 

 

His hands itched to touch as the lithe mech crawled up his frame, but Rung bracketed his arms between his knees, effectively trapping him unless he wanted to unseat the smaller mech completely.

 

“Perceptor, I do believe it’s your turn, don’t you?” He felt the mattress dip as Perceptor climbed back up and lifted his leg, draping it over the shoulder not occupied by a scope, and sliding into his valve without resistance.

 

Rung winked down at him, curling to press a kiss to his chevron, nibbling lightly on the leading edge and flicking his glossa over the delicate point. Ratchet’s fingers drummed against the berth, knotting in the sheets, desperate for something to touch. Perceptor, noticing his dilemma, took pity and took hold of one hand as he pressed in slowly. The slide of his spike along all those sensors, still primed and crackling with charge from Rung’s ministrations, it was exquisite torture that he never wanted to stop. 

 

He curled his leg, the one not already occupying a space on Perceptor’s shoulder, around the back of the other mech’s legs, trying to pull on him, urge him on to a faster pace, but it was like trying to move the Ark for all the good it did. Perceptor continued the slow, steady pace despite Ratchet’s shameless moaning and wordless begging.

 

“Ratchet, would you like something else to focus on?” 

 

Ratchet knew that tone, he  _ knew better _ than to think Rung was being anything less than an unrepentant tease when he asked  _ that _ question in  _ that _ tone, but the higher functioning parts of his processor were well on their way to becoming a bubbling pile of slag, and so he nodded desperately. 

 

He even thought, for a brief, shining moment, as the small mech moved to kneel over his head, facing Perceptor with a sexy smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth, that maybe,  _ just maybe _ , this time Rung would show a little mercy.

 

_ He really should have known better _ .

 

Rung moaned, sliding his hands down his frame, parting the folds of his valve with the fingers of one hand while stroked little circles into the glowing nub of protomesh just above. Ratchet licked his lips, optics locked on the little shimmer of lubricant the other mech was spreading over energon flushed plating, and his fingers twitched. Perceptor, keened opticked as always, saw this, and squeezed the hand linked with his. He wasn’t sure if it was a warning to look but not touch, or a show of support and solidarity as Rung teased him mercilessly, hips rocking into his own hand as he moaned and vented heavily just out of reach overhead. 

 

Then Rung leaned in, and Perceptor met him halfway, their lips meshing together in a display that was designed solely for the purpose of melting his struts, and he was positive it had been a warning and not support. Little flashes of dentae and glossa, and Rung’s breathy whimpers as he made an absolute  _ show _ of kissing the scientist senseless, and Ratchet’s fuel pump stalled, spark skipping irregularly in his chest as his hips rose off the berth to meet each of Perceptor’s thrusts. 

 

That wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy the view, by any stretch of the imagination. The sight of his lovers locked in a passionate, sloppy, strut melting kiss? He’d have had to been blind and senseless to not think that was one of the hottest sights he’d ever seen, or would see in his long life. That’s to say nothing of the image stills he filed away for ‘just in case’ times, when schedules truly did conflict and he found himself alone in the berth. 

 

“Rung?” He wasn’t above begging in the berth. And right then and there, with Rung’s array hovering just out of reach, and Perceptor nibbling at Rung’s lips, glossa smoothing over the little almost invisible dents left behind? 

 

He was going to beg.

 

Rung, sensing what he was about to do, leaned back, looking down his frame at Ratchet and licking his lips. “You want to touch?” 

 

He nodded frantically, and raised the hand not still clinging to Perceptor’s. Rung captured it in both of his, gently and methodically curling all but two of his fingers into his palm with steady hands, then raising up higher on his knees, guiding Ratchet’s hand between his thighs.

 

“Don’t move, Ratchet, okay?” 

 

Optics wide, vocalizer glitching into a mess of static, he was reduced to nodding again, and watched with hungry optics as Rung lowered himself onto his fingers. 

 

“Do you like that?  _ Oh _ ...oh Ratchet,” Rung moaned, rocking his hips, raising and lowering himself on the medic’s fingers as if he were riding his spike, while Ratchet focused on keeping his hand still and took enough image stills to overload his short term cache.  “ _ Hng _ ….up...up your sensitivity, please?” 

 

Rung didn’t have to ask twice, and Ratchet was more than happy to dial the sensors in his hand back up to something more on the level of surgery settings. 

 

The effect was instantaneous, as all of the extra data flooded his processor, overwhelming him with the clench of that hot, wet valve around his fingers. Biting his lip, squeezing at Perceptor’s hand, he tracked the trail of lubricant rolling down his fingers, over his palm, each micron of plating it touched left overly sensitized after, in a way that added to the knot of pleasure building in the pit of his tank again. 

 

Rung was moving faster, leaning forward on one palm, exventing heavily between heated kisses, and Ratchet moaned when he paused long enough to reach down and uncurl another of the medic’s sensitive fingers, to slip in alongside the others. 

 

He had to actually search for the lines of code he wanted, his processor was so overwhelmed with the tactile information, with the slide of Perceptor’s spike in his valve, his fans screaming and his spark racing in its chamber. But it was worth the effort when the coils in his fingers kicked on with a little hum, the vibrations enough to cause Rung’s hips to stutter as the smaller mech overloaded with a shout. 

 

Rung had said not to move. Well... _ technically  _ he hadn’t moved.

 

And now? Now he was going to get what  _ he _ wanted. He pulled his hands free, and wrapped them around slim hips, pulling a startled Rung down so he could lap at the lubricant clinging to the folds of his valve, suckling on heated protomesh and enjoying the needy, wanton sounds escaping the other mech’s vocalizer. 

 

Perceptor moaned, leaning forward on his palms and kissing Rung’s slack mouth while Ratchet’s glossa flicked against Rung’s brightly glowing node. He could feel the way Rung leaned onto his hands and knees, trying to raise his hips up, to take some of his weight off of Ratchet, but he wasn’t having any of it, not after having been teased and tormented for so long. A sharp tug on his hips had Rung’s knees sliding apart, and suddenly, satisfactorily, all Ratchet could process was the weight, the scent, the feel of Rung surrounding him while he lapped and suckled and teased at the mech’s sensitive array. 

 

Before long, Rung had lost all semblance of self control, and was rocking against Ratchet’s mouth, lubricants streaking his thighs and Ratchet’s cheeks. A quirk of his frame type, one that Rung was still embarrassed about from time to time, but one that Ratchet and Perceptor both  _ loved _ , Rung tended to be an extremely messy overloader, and tonight was not going to be an exception. He sealed his lips around Rung’s node, and a little bit of suction was all it took. Rung’s hips jerked near out of his grasp, and he slumped forward on Ratchet’s chest, hips rocking against his face while Ratchet lapped at his valve with broad swipes of his glossa.

 

He would have been content to lay there like that with Rung draped across him, but Perceptor had other ideas, pulling out despite Ratchet’s vocal displeasure, and helping Rung slide off Ratchet’s frame. 

 

Ratchet found himself being lifted up, and struggled to make his limbs do as he commanded when he was urged to turn around, but in the end he wound up straddling Perceptor’s lap, back pressed to the other mech’s chestplate, sinking back down onto his spike with a sparkfelt moan. Rung, flushed, gasping, putting off enough heat to visibly warp the air between them, knelt in front of them, pressing in close and kissing Ratchet’s slack mouth, smothering the moan that bubbled up from the back of his vocalizer with an expert application of soft, warm lips and slick glossa.

 

Fingers slid along the stretched rim of his valve, one slowly, cautiously pressing in alongside Perceptor’s spike. 

 

“Is this alright?” Rung asked, lips brushing against his as he spoke, pressing his thumb against his node and rubbing circles into the bundle of sensors. Ratchet nodded, letting his head fall back against Perceptor’s shoulder while Rung stroked and teased along Perceptor’s spike. When one finger became two, Ratchet whined, hips bucking into the touch as Rung scissored his fingers, firm pressure on the rim of his valve almost too much, and for a moment he thought he was done, he knew his next overload would be the last of the night, and he wasn’t ready for this to be over. Biting his lip, curling his hands into fists, he deleted every ‘overload imminent’ warning that popped up on his HUD, trying to think of something,  _ anything _ , that would delay that last burst of pleasure for the moment.

 

Rung and Perceptor, sensing his dilemma, both froze. They waited until Ratchet onlined his optics and nodded. Perceptor curled his hands around Ratchet’s thighs, spreading him wider, while Rung pressed in, spike nudging at his valve. An impressive bit of coordination, and he pulled his fingers free, replacing them with his spike and letting his head drop down onto Ratchet’s windshield. Ratchet would have admired the way the smaller mech’s exvents fogged his windshield, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think, couldn’t  _ move _ . His limbs felt like they’d been forged from rubber for all the strength they had, his entire focus on the delicious stretch in his valve, the way he could  _ feel  _ their spikes sliding against one another as they stretched him open nearly to the limits of his array’s tolerances.

 

Rung’s hands were shaky on his shoulders when he finally started to move. Ratchet twitched, moaning, strutless and limp between them as Rung’s spike slid nearly all the way out before he thrust back in, setting up a slow, careful pace that drug along all the sensors along the front wall of his valve that fed charge between his valve and his spike. 

 

“ _ Rung... _ oh slag...I’m, I’m not…” Ratchet couldn’t even find the words to warn them as overload lit his systems up, frame locking, valve flexing weakly around their spikes. Rung shuddered, and Perceptor’s hands on his thighs tightened enough to divot pliable plating, and the last thing he processed before reboot took hold was the splash of transfluids against his internal nodes as Perceptor and Rung both overloaded one after the other. 

 

His optics dimmed, and he offlined with a satisfied, warm melted feeling in the pit of his tank and a lazy, goofy grin on his face.

 

~~~~~

 

When he rebooted, he’d been lain out on the berth, and Rung was putting away the cleaning supplies. His plating was sparkling clean, not a trace of the night's activities left on his frame, and he found he was a little disappointed that not only was the evidence gone, but that he’d missed what he knew would have been very tactile, very tender care. 

 

Perceptor, sensing the flash of disappointment in his field, pulled him up against his frame, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “How are you feeling?” 

 

Ratchet sighed, stretching and enjoying the dull ache of a frame well used.

 

“Mmmm, like we could do this again when we’re done recharging?” He finally responded, raising one arm and wrapping it around Rung’s back when the smallest of their triad draped himself across their frames, taking up far more space than should have been physically possible for one so small.

 

“I suppose we could find it in us for a repeat performance.” Ratchet didn’t have to look to know Perceptor was grinning, and he shifted so he was pressed up against the sniper from knee to shoulder, tightening his hold on Rung.

 

They were drifting into recharge, engines a low idle, when Rung lifted his head from where it lay over Ratchet’s spark chamber.

 

"Do you know that you purr, Ratchet? It's absolutely endearing." Rung chuckled, stroking the side of Ratchet's face and pressing a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

 

Ratchet grumbled, swatting at Rung's hand and missing by a mile.

 

"S'not a purr...s'a snore...I'm sleeping...see? Snore."

**Author's Note:**

> Commission information can be found [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) if you are interested. Thank you!


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